


The Landscape from the Inside

by china_shop



Series: Comeback Tour [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fic, First Time, Good people trying to do the right thing, M/M, Massage, Missing Scene, Partnership, Sam POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey," Sam interrupts quietly. "Where you go, I go." It's like getting married. To infinity and beyond. "Hey, have you even seen <i>Toy Story</i> yet?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Landscape from the Inside

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to Waiting for the Gates to Open. The fic and series titles come from one of [EliseM's lists of earrings](http://elisem.livejournal.com/1868139.html). 
> 
> Epic thanks to mossybomb for beta-kicking this into shape. <3

Once Steve regains consciousness, it's only a couple of days before he's discharged from the hospital. Sam spends the time hanging around the ward, making a nuisance of himself. Late on the first day, Steve says, "You know you don't have to stay."

"Dude, you wanted to get rid of me, you shouldn't have got shot," says Sam. The shooting's the least of it – there's the impact from the fall, the drowning and an unknown number of suspected blows to the head – but it's the easiest to say. Short version, Steve's a mess and Sam's going to stick around and make sure he makes it. "If you really want me gone, get Natasha to throw me out."

"Fair enough." Steve looks amused, and he seems glad to have him there, maybe flirts a little with those killer eyelashes and the curve of his lips, but in the wake of everything that's happened it's hard to tell how much he means it. Maybe he's keeping Sam around like a comfort blanket. This isn't the time or place to remind him about thanking Sam later. So Sam lazes in the visitor's chair, ignoring his own aches and pains, and keeps an eye on things. Natasha reports in with ongoing developments. 

 

*

 

On Thursday, Sam is summoned to the Pentagon, where Emmett Truscott, a four-star general, shakes his hand, calls him son and tries to persuade him to re-enlist. Truscott holds forth on the subject of security clearance and access to military assets, and it sounds like he's talking about the wing pack. Sam's about to justify its appropriation and explain that Stark Industries is shipping down a replacement (or two), but then he clicks: when Truscott says _military asset_ , he means Steve.

Sam snaps his mouth shut, says as little as possible, listens to the spiel and gets out. He doesn't want to burn any bridges without talking to Steve first.

 

*

 

He gets back to DC late afternoon and drops by the hospital like he's got a homing beacon under his ribs. Natasha's leaning back almost horizontal in the chair in Steve's room, more relaxed than Sam's seen her yet while still radiating danger and sex appeal in about equal measure. She confirms Sam's theory. "The military wants Steve back."

Steve rolls his eyes. Apparently he's already heard this, and being headhunted isn't a novelty. 

Sam's gaze catches on him, noting the healthy color in his cheeks only a few days after nearly dying. He really is a miracle of science – strong, skilled, and if not indestructible, damn close. No wonder he gets offers.

"It's partly his fighting capacity, and partly public relations," Natasha continues. "The nation's pretty panicked since things went down, and the Pentagon needs a front man people can trust."

"Makes sense," says Sam, "but what do they want with me? The EXO-7 program was terminated three years ago."

"You're the bait," she says.

Steve's lips quirk. "To lure me in."

"That doesn't—" Sam gets stuck processing that, not to mention the matter-of-fact way they both accept it rather than laughing their asses off. He sweeps it aside to deal with later and pulls up a chair. "Well, you've got to work for someone."

"Stark Industries has offered both of you positions," says Natasha blandly.

"As what, research guinea pigs?" Sam can't imagine what else an industrial giant like SI might want with him, and he has a hard time picturing Steve as Captain Corporate America.

"Security," says Steve. "Basically, full-time Avengers work. You'd be on the team."

It's a kind of career opportunity that doesn't come along every day. Sam doesn't know why he's not jumping at it. "The Avengers are going private sector?"

Steve shrugs both shoulders without wincing. "It's one possibility, now SHIELD's out of the picture." He keeps it deadpan and adds, "Don't worry, we wouldn't have to wear suits and ties."

"I don't seem like a suit kind of guy to you?" Truth be told, Sam only owns one tie, and it's a poor excuse, but Steve doesn't know that.

"The closet door was open in your bedroom," says Steve. "I didn't see many suits." 

It takes Sam a moment to recall when Steve Rogers saw his bedroom, because wouldn't he remember that? Oh right, fugitives, clean-up, breakfast. Kiss. Steve's smirking at him.

"Stark pays well," say Natasha, dragging them back on point. "I hear they even offer dental. And it's a tight team. The fewer people, the more sure you can be who you're really working for." It's the closest any of them have come to mentioning HYDRA. 

She has a point: any organization has weaknesses that can be exploited, even if it isn't rotten to the core. "On the other hand—" Sam leans forward. "Well, it depends on what you want to do and how you want to go about it. I'm not saying the army hasn't got its problems, but it might pay to have legal standing, oversight, some kind of formal code of conduct." He thinks of the damage they can do in an afternoon. "Insurance. And from what Truscott was saying, you can write your own ticket. Join the National Guard if you don't want to be shipped out."

Steve looks serious and thoughtful, and Sam sits back again to take the pressure off. 

"Maybe you should take a vacation before you sign your life away again," says Natasha meaningfully, and it's a surprising enough statement coming from her that Sam has to stop and decode it. Right. The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, is in the wind. It's not like Sam had forgotten, but it's still a jolt to be reminded. There's a world full of loose ends and unresolved history out there.

Steve sighs, and Sam wants to touch his arm or clasp his ankle, which is closer, offer some silent comfort, but that feels presumptuous. He stays still and meets Steve's eye. "Whatever you need, man."

 

*

 

When he's up there, it's the altitude that gets him, not the horizontal speed. You can go fast on the ground, but soaring upward is something else: G-forces, cooling thinning air, pressure in his ears. An invisible airscape of thermals, lift, convergent zones and wind spreading out around him. The earth drops, and the further it falls, the more vulnerable it seems. Vulnerable and implacable. 

He dreams about explosions, a battle. Steve falling, curled against his shield. About not being able to reach him in time. About a violent bloody landing and the spray of dirt on impact. But Steve doesn't die. History only repeats with variations, and Sam knows next time he'll do better, he'll save him.

He wakes in the dark, breathing hard. The dream has dissipated; all he recalls are the jackknife twists and dives of his body through the air, and there's a part of him that thinks he'd do just about anything if it meant he got to keep flying. 

He tells that part to shut up. Whatever Steve decides to do next, if they stick together there's a good chance Sam will get to use his new wings, but that's not _why_ he's following Steve, and to think clearly, make right choices, he has to be willing to keep his feet on the ground.

 

*

 

Steve's discharged the next day, and by then Sam can sleep lying down and his bruises aren't troubling him too much. He can walk pretty well without limping. Won't be going for a run for another couple of weeks, but that's okay. He got off lightly.

Steve, who took a beating and three bullets, is good as new. Better than new, and infuriatingly smug about it. Sam has more than one occasion to smack him on the arm. Maybe that's the point.

They can't stay at Steve's place because half the living room wall's been blasted away, and they can't stay at Sam's because there are news vans camped outside, twenty-four/seven, but they can't leave town till the new wings arrive, and Steve wants to check in with Fury if he can. Sam calls his neighbor, Cathie, and asks her to sneak into his place and pack some things, and then Natasha takes them to a safe house where they can rest up. It's just one room with a kitchenette in the corner and a small bathroom, looks like a converted workshop. Natasha says it's secure. Pretty basic, but that's almost reassuring right now. Sam doesn't think any of them are in the mood for luxury hotels.

Two minutes later Natasha says, "I have to go to New York. Don't wait up," and leaves them alone. Steve props his shield by the door, takes off his jacket and sits on the low double bed with his back to the wall. 

Sam tosses his duffle in a corner and hovers for a moment, then settles down beside him, close but not touching. It feels like they're waiting for something, and Sam's a little worried it's a conversation, but he's a counsellor, he can handle words. He can. Even if they're _It's been real, but I've got to face this next one on my own._ Even if they're _Come with me, let's jump off the edge of the world together, no backup, no rules._

Sam doesn't mind jumping. He can fly.

They've both still got their boots on. Taking them off feels like an act of faith, but Sam starts loosening his laces anyway. Something's niggling at him, making him self-conscious, but it's been a long day and it takes him a minute to get a bead on it. Right. The thing is, Sam is fully on board with Steve, with having Steve's back, being his partner. Yeah, it took him by surprise, but he's committed now. He's made his choice. What he doesn't know is when the hell the rest of the world started taking it for granted. He keeps his head bent, lets the angle muffle his voice. "Man, I can't believe the Pentagon wants to use me as bait."

"Well, it's a smart move."

Sam throws his boots toward his duffle, one after the other, wriggles his toes, and looks at Steve. There's a faint blush on Captain Roger's cheeks that makes Sam quiver inside. "Yeah?"

Steve nods without meeting his eye. "Unless you don't want to—"

"Hey," Sam interrupts quietly. "Where you go, I go." It's like getting married. To infinity and beyond. "Hey, have you even seen _Toy Story_ yet?"

"Should I?" Steve takes out his notebook and adds it to the list, and the gesture breaks the tension, reminds Sam of their first meeting. Gives them both a chance to breathe.

Sam's still got questions though, a huge jumble of them, and he isn't sure if the first one should be _So, are we re-enlisting?_ or _Am I ever going to get to kiss you again?_ That sunlit moment in his kitchen seems like a lifetime ago, and there's an innocent, naive quality to the memory, like a faded photo from the forties. What Sam wants now is deeper, more primal. He wants Steve under his skin. But they're working together, everyone's watching, and Steve's world's been turned upside-down a couple of times since then. It might not be an option anymore.

Steve puts his notebook away and bends forward to take off his boots, the bow of his spine curving in a way that makes Sam a little crazy. Sam doesn't let himself stop and think. "Scooch forward a bit."

Steve shoots him a sideways curious look, but he doesn't ask. He kicks his boots off and shuffles forward on his butt. 

Sam shoves a couple of hard pillows into the space behind Steve for height, and he eases down between Steve and the wall, pushing Steve further forward so he has room to move. Steve leans into his hands, and Sam takes that as a sign and lets his legs sprawl out on either side.

Steve's back is radiating heat through his button-down, and Sam's thighs are snug against his hips, and this is more intimate than Sam really intended, but it's only awkward if they let it be. He rests his hands on Steve's shoulder blades.

"Sam?" It's barely a murmur.

"You gotta relax, man. You can't always be saving the world," says Sam, and he rubs his thumbs in an arc, testing to see how Steve will react, if he'll tell Sam to stand down. 

Steve's rib cage expands as he takes a deep breath, and Sam travels up slowly, rubbing the muscles at the base of his neck, through the shirt, trying to coax the tension out of the solid wall of strength that is Steve Rogers. Sam doesn't know anyone who's spent three days in a hospital bed without getting some back pain, and none of them were under the kind of pressure Steve endures just by being who he is. Sam's thumb slips above the shirt collar, brushing into Steve's hair.

Steve lets out his breath in a rush. "Wait a second."

"Okay." Sam rests his hands where they are, but Steve's moving away, and maybe this was a mistake. Well, at least now Sam knows that, and they can figure it out from here. That's what Sam thinks in a swoop of disappointment – plus that he's determined not to mind too much.

But Steve only goes a couple of inches. He angles forward again and strips his shirt over his head in one smooth gesture, letting it fall to the mattress in front of him. When he comes back, easing into the cradle of Sam's thighs, leaning into his hands, there's just smooth, perfect skin. 

Sam swallows a groan and starts again with the massage, kneading at the expanse of muscle. There are pink marks where there should be scars, and for a split second, Sam hears the echo of shouting, remembers running so fast his feet slip under him, sees mental snapshots of Steve bleeding out, medics inventorying his wounds, crumpled helicarriers sending up thick columns of smoke. Sam hopes he'll never see Steve bleed again. He knows he will.

He shakes off the memory, working his way up both sides of Steve's spine, spreading his fingers, digging in hard until his deltoid aches where he wrenched it during the fight. There's nothing sexual about what he's doing. Nothing and everything. The ambiguity is exciting, forcing him to keep control of himself and his expectations. But still, his pants are too tight, and he can't help liking the look of his hands on Steve's pale skin.

Steve takes another very deep breath, exhales slowly and _melts_ under Sam's touch. It's the single sexiest moment of Sam's life to date, even better than a perfectly executed flight maneuver, and it leaves him speechless, hanging onto plausible deniability by a thread.

He struggles to find his voice, and when he does, all he can manage are two words, rasping his throat. "Are we—?"

It comes out more uncertain than he'd like, but the next minute, Steve is turning toward him, hand coming to cup his face, and Steve's big hot mouth is on his, no hesitation at all. Sam stops pretending he's doing anything therapeutic or decent and just _drags_ his hands all over Steve's body: down his side over his ribs; along the small of his back, riding the edge of his waistband; over his pecs, thumbing his nipple. He opens his mouth to Steve's tongue and molests him shamelessly, safe in the awareness Steve is doing the exact same thing to him. 

Steve grabs his ass and squeezes, and Sam laughs and shoves him back onto the bed so he can crawl on top of him. Their legs tangle, and they squirm together like teenagers, kissing wildly, and if Sam doesn't slow this down, he's going to come in his pants before they even properly get started. It's all so _good_ , everything about it.

He grabs Steve's thigh and hitches it up, pinning them together, heedless of his own bruises, and Steve's hips jerk against him. Okay, okay, he's not the only one who needs to slow down. He tears his mouth away and presses his forehead to Steve's. "So, uh, I guess we're really doing this."

It's his best shot at a conversational tone, and it makes Steve pull back to grin at him. "I guess we are." His grin fades quickly. "You know this isn't a condition for any of the rest of it."

A small knot in Sam's chest loosens – not because he ever thought their partnership rested on this, but because Steve's checking in as if he's the one doing the seducing. Cute. "It's a side-benefit," agrees Sam. He raises a teasing eyebrow. "So. Figured out what makes you happy yet?"

Steve smirks and drags him back down into a kiss, not that it takes a whole lot of dragging. Sam pushes forward and fumbles at the front of Steve's jeans at the same time, which makes everything unnecessarily complicated, but whatever, between them they get out of the rest of their clothes, and Sam manages to stave off inadequacy from comparing his own body with Steve's, because hell, ain't no one going to measure up to that, and he's never had any complaints before. Steve sure isn't complaining.

Sam leans in to kiss him, swept along in the wing-beat rhythm of their bodies thrusting together, hands holding, slipping, grasping, the faint haze of heat and sweat. He reaches between them, lines them up and ruts down, his pleasure as blinding as sunlight on water far, far below.

Steve groans deep in his chest, feeling it too. His fingertips map along Sam's jaw, down his neck to clutch his shoulder, and Sam can't help a tiny flinch because that's his damaged shoulder, but mostly he doesn't care, can't stop, pleasure and pain twining together. The strong ache of desire is far more pressing. When you're flying, there's no breathers, no time to stop and rest – and why would you? You're _flying_.

But Steve must notice the flinch. His grip shifts to be more gentle, thumb soothing the hurt away, and he hauls Sam even closer till there's no space between them and Sam's barely supporting his own weight. They're still grinding, but it's long drawn-out strokes now, their dicks glancing off each other every third or fourth beat, and Steve's mouth is generous and eager, and Sam wants to live in this moment, riding it up and up and up. 

But sooner or later, inevitably, the oxygen runs out. Sweet darkness rises up, pulsing in his veins, thrumming along his nerves, and he gasps and comes hard, spilling with a shout. Steve rolls them so he's on top, nearly landing them on the floor but they recover quickly, and he presses his face to Sam's shoulder, thrusts a couple more times. His body stiffens through his orgasm, and his ass is so taut under Sam's hand it's almost quivering. It's pretty obvious he needed the release on a deep, unspoken level, and Sam suddenly wonders if the sex was medicinal for Steve – an extension of the massage – rather than the passionate hook-up Sam wants it to be.

Then he figures hey, buddy-fucking Captain America. Could be a lot worse.

He erases that last thought as not being worthy of either of them and pushes the dead weight that is Steve off him so they're lying side by side, crowded on the narrow bed. They're both smeared with come, and Sam's skin cools when air hits the wet patches. He swipes a hand over his belly. Meanwhile Steve gets his breath back almost insultingly fast, but Sam refuses to read into that; the guy's probably got a resting pulse rate of twelve. "So, no pressure or anything, but I'm falling here, so I just need to know if I'm gonna need a chute."

"Falling?" Steve sounds dopey. He gets up on one elbow and looks around the room, confused.

"For you," clarifies Sam, as casually as he can. And then, in case that meant something different in the 1940s, "Romantically."

"Falling," repeats Steve. The guarded layer is still there, will maybe always be there, but it's not a rejection, and there's no doubting the warmth in his eyes. He traces a bruise on Sam's chest and smiles. "I know the feeling. For you. Romantically."

Sam smacks him on the arm, relieved and elated, and says, "Then let's see if we can stick the landing." With everything ahead of them, this can only get more complicated before it smooths out, but Sam's faced far worse odds with a song in his heart.

Steve ducks his head to one side. "So. The military."

"You don't have to decide now," says Sam hastily. "Take your time."

"No, I know. I just—" Steve's hand comes to rest over Sam's sternum, warm and heavy. "I don't want you to think I've given up on the rule of law." 

Sam breathes a laugh. "That is actually the last thing I would think about you." 

"The thing is, I don't really know what they want me for." This obviously worries him. "And my next mission wouldn't be a priority for them."

If he means finding Barnes, Sam's not sure he's right about that – the Winter Soldier packs a hell of a punch – but he doesn't argue. "Okay." He covers Steve's hand, holding it there, and says the words Steve doesn't want to hear. The ones Sam's been holding back since the hospital. His two cents. "It's just, you know. We're soldiers."

Steve's lips form a straight line, and there's a sense of seismic plates grinding together as he struggles to reconcile competing loyalties, duty with duty, and the downward pull of sadness. It takes him a minute. Then he says slowly, "Maybe there comes a time you have to find out what kind of man you are without the uniform. A time to let personal responsibilities take precedence."

Sam blinks, because when did they get turned around like this: him arguing for duty; Steve on the side of self-actualization? It's like Freaky Friday in here, or else he's bought too far into the Captain America mythology without realizing it. He gets his bearings. "You're right, man, you're absolutely right. You gotta do what you gotta do. Follow your heart."

Steve shakes off the sadness and gives him an unlikely leer. "I thought that's what we were doing," he says, and Sam laughs loudly and tries to wrestle him to the mattress, knowing he can't possibly succeed and not caring. Wherever they end up, he's cool with that.

 

END


End file.
